Of Balls and Bad Guesswork
by Linxcat
Summary: Working out someone's identity at a masked ball: it was all a very simple matter of finding the evidence, dusting for finger prints and then calling the suspect on it.


**AUTHOR'S NOTE - I was going to post this as another chapter of _Joining The Dots_, but I didn't feel it fitted in with the overall feel and narrative style of the rest of the story, so it turned into a one-shot. **

Samuel Vimes _hated_ balls, and it was a rather well-established fact.

This one had been Sybil's idea. He hadn't been very pleased with her for it, but at least she had let him wear his less poncey official uniform this time. And, she'd added, as if it would improve the situation, it was a _masked_ ball! Vimes was particularly badly disposed towards masks, being a copper. They concealed a person's identity, which turned pursuits into bloody havoc.

But they did give him something to do, he supposed. He hated making small talk with the dignitaries with Sybil, his _hostly duty_, so instead, he'd parked himself by the food table and had set about working out who all the couples were. Apparently, the tradition went that if you guessed who someone was, you were supposed to catch their eye, and when they came over, confront them with their name, then they would make a pass at your identity. It was all a very simple matter of finding the evidence, dusting for finger prints and then calling the suspect on it.

Mr Lipwig, for example; Vimes had already found him. The man was clearly trying - and failing - to go incognito in his owl-killer blacker-than-black suit, with silvery grey trimming on the cuffs and collar, and a similar pattern on his full-face mask - not a single hint of gold, this time, but Vimes would recognise that suit anywhere. His fiancée, Miss Dearheart, was dressed to match, in a black dress with silver trim and a bodice of rich red that was almost pink in some lights. She wore an ornate eye-mask that was such a deep burgundy it appeared to tint her eyes scarlet, and her dark hair fell in curls to her shoulders.

_You should start writing for Hot magazine! _

Vimes scowled at his inner self, which would have looked quite odd to bystanders, if it weren't for the fact that Sam Vimes spent a lot of his time scowling.

Little details are _always_ important, he told it irritably, and then turned back to the couple in time to see Miss Dearheart lifting the bottom of Lipwig's mask to kiss him. The air between the two was always crackling with sexual tension, and tonight was no exception. As they pulled away and Lipwig tugged his mask back down, Vimes managed to catch his eye and nod him over.

Miss Dearheart took Lipwig's arm as they approached, a surprisingly demure action for such a…spirited woman but they were, after all, in costume. He would never have usually wished to start a conversation with the charismatic Postmaster, but his triumph in discovering the man's identity propelled him to.

"Mr Lipwig." Vimes acknowledged with a grin, "And Miss Dearheart."

Lipwig and Miss Dearheart exchanged a glance of surprise, and then he nodded, "Commander Vimes." he responded.

Vimes had forgotten that he himself was wearing a mask, but he hadn't really put much effort into hiding his own identity, as he was wearing his Commander's dress uniform. Lipwig's voice was rather muffled by his disguise, and Vimes had to lean forwards to catch the man's farewell, before he returned to the dance floor with his fiancée.

As the couple walked away, Vimes noticed absently that Lipwig had slicked his hair back, the gel presumably being what made it appear so much darker than his usual sandy blond. And…he was sure that Miss Dearheart was usually much taller than that…or perhaps it was just her penchant for dangerous heels. She was wearing sensible flat dancing pumps tonight, which did seem rather out of character.

"Hmm." he said reflectively.

"Commander Vimes!" said an all-too-familiar voice by his ear.

"Bloody hell!" Vimes responded, whipping around to see a young man in an _incredibly black suit_, so black that it made his _gold_ necktie positively sparkle, and his _sandy blond hair_ escaped around the sides of his _gold_ mask.

"Oh." said Vimes, feeling very stupid indeed. "Then…then who…?" _Never twist fact to support opinion! _His inner self berated.

Lipwig blinked, confused, "It, uh, wasn't that difficult to guess…"

"He said…well he didn't say, but…I thought _they_ were…" Vimes trailed off, gesturing to the man and woman, who had begun to dance again.

"Us?" Lipwig glanced at his fiancée, who shrugged, "We've only just arrived."

They turned to watch as the couple twirled and disappeared into the crowds. Miss Dearheart - the _real_ Miss Dearheart - spoke up.

"She's wearing pearl earrings; I don't even have my ears pierced. She's a lot shorter than me, too. And he has much darker hair than Moist."

There was another general pause, as they each considered the appearance, attire and behaviour of the couple. The answer seemed to hit all three of them at the same time.

"We didn't see anything." said Lipwig.

"Absolutely nothing." Vimes agreed.

"Has anyone else…?"

"No, I haven't seen anyone even take interest in them."

"Good. Great. Yes. You won't-?"

"Of course not!"

"Just checking."

Miss Dearheart rolled her eyes, "I'm sure his Lordship is incredibly thankful to have you two protecting the privacy of his love life. Can we go now?"

_Damn it! _Vimes thought furiously, scowling as Lipwig and Miss Dearheart made their way to the dance floor. He hated being _obliged _to keep someone's secret, and the absolute _arse_ hadn't even had to ask - there wasn't any evidence for it, so telling anyone would just be spreading fruitless rumours. And what would he say, anyway? 'Guess what - I saw Lord Vetinari snogging Lady Margolotta, and they danced together all night!'? Everyone knew she was his squeeze. That was _old_ news.

It was a different matter entirely, though, when it was _true_…

Sybil swept over and pulled him from his bad-tempered considerations into the mass of dancing couples. His brain forgot its irritation in its desperate attempt to remember how to waltz properly, but as he squinted down at his feet through his ridiculous eye-mask, one thought remained -

_I bloody _hate_ bloody balls._


End file.
